


John 15:15

by Arithanas



Series: Love Demands Sacrifices [2]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Service
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 05:05:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4047154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorn between a good job and jealousy sometimes one had to choose what is good for other people and not for us. Charlot POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John 15:15

I and my wife found ourselves at the gates of what locals called the Castle of Bragelonne. The house was not really that impressive once one lived a couple of years in Paris, but the structure, though in need of some care, was nice and bulky, and the land... Lots of forest surrounded the property and for what I saw while we walked to the house, there are some ponds and the Loire for fishing. I couldn't ask for more. Euphrasie, by my side, was all flushed and a little sweaty for the walk carrying her favorite cauldron stuffed with her cooking implements and species. I passed my arm over her plump shoulders and drew her to me in a clumsy hug. The air smelled like smoke, newly removed earth and fresh herbs.

Bragelonne started to feel like home to me.

"At least this house shall have a decent kitchen," she said with a resigned sigh.

She was still worried, she had been that way since Grimaud dawned on us that we spent two year working for a Count and not a wealthy _chevalier_ , a fact that he knew for so many years that he seemed like he had forgotten about it. I kissed her temple, wishing that I could get her to see it my way: a Count is more stability than a regular nobleman.

We crossed the decrepit gates into an old neglected courtyard where we found a rather familiar presence. Grimaud was working the gardens bare chested, under the heavy midday sun, the sickle sliced dry grass and shoots indiscriminately, the firm hand place the remains over his shoulder. There was a small concerned scowl in his face —a regular ornament of his features— but there was also something different, although I couldn't pinpoint what it was.

" _Maître_ Grimaud?" I dared to interrupt his work.

Grimaud stopped and stood up tall, his shoulders squared, his skin glistering with sweat. He gave us a small smile and made a sign for us to wait for him a moment longer. While he did that I couldn't but notice the small polished wood cross pendant with the words ' _Jean 15:15_ ' carved in the horizontal bar.

"I never noticed he carried a Cross," Euphrasie said to me on a hushed tone.

"I really hope that that was the only thing you noticed about him today," I replied wryly, a little annoyed by her comment.

"Yes, the only one," my wife was never demure, "I already knew he was younger and more muscular than you..."

I was about to nag her about her impudence but Grimaud whistled and called us out to follow him inside the house, a simple shirt was in his hand. Fortunately, he had that piece of clothing over his back when we join him; I don't like my woman exposed to another man's body, I didn't really care if he was a valet or a Count.

I'm a jealous guy.

When we started to work with them it was pretty obvious that the only thing they were interested in when it regarded to my wife was her cooking, they didn't notice her and that suited me just fine. We had a little room in a house in Rue Saint-Honoré, we see only Grimaud on Saturdays when he brought out our wages and a list of the dishes his master wanted for the week that I was to deliver to Rue Férou. Life was good in Paris.

I was still rambling about my wife and these two men when we stood at the opening of what seemed to be a large room. Grimaud knocked on the door jamb and waited for the permission to enter. That's why we called him _Maître_ , he was the only one who know how to manage his way around his master.

"What is it?"

"Charlot and his wife," was the answer given in a coarse voice. He never called me Charles, and neither did the master.

"Thank you, Grimaud. Let them in"

Did I hear that right?

...

Euphrasie waited until I entered the room; she never truly trusted the master, she said the way he looked at her made her uneasy. That big room, —saloon, I thought it was called— was a chaotic scene with chairs covered with sheets and crates opened. The master was busy arranging some books that he produced from a leather case. The shelves were recently polished and were slowly filling with neat groups of leather-bound books. We waited there, not wishing to interrupt him in his work.

"Did you have a good trip?" the Count asked, choosing a bunch of tomes. He didn't turn his eyes toward us.

"Yes, _M. le comte_. A happy trip since us both arrived safely."

"Good to know. Charlot, the castle needs a lot of work before we can start to think about the land." A pause, The Count looked over his shoulder but his eyes were too low to see us. "Carpenters and joiners have been sought, but those who are skilled are busy this time of year..."

I tried to follow the speech, but Euphrasie moved by my side and then in front of me. My hand failed to catch her and she get near by the case from where the master retrieved his books. My wife was drawn to the master by something I couldn't see but, by the way she moved, I could comprehend she was elated.

"You are to help Grimaud for the next couple of months; then, we could think about your new responsibilities."

"Yes, _M. le comte_."

I was quick to respond, but that didn't stop the master for doing what he was doing and soon he found himself within a hand-span from my wife's head who, in her knees, spied on what to my untrained eye seemed like a wicker basket.

"He's Raoul..." The voice of our master was kind, and for the first time, he smiled at my wife.

"Aw, Raoul is a cute name for a charming boy!"

Euphrasie never gave our master a look, she was completely enthralled by the boy who extended his arms and let me see his pudgy fingers.

"I'm glad that we agree," his voice returned to his stern tone, "because there is something I want to ask you."

"At your service, _M. le comte_!" I replied, trying to divert his attention from my wife.

"Charlot, I was talking to your wife," The Count faced me. I had his complete attention and it didn't seem like something good. "I'm sure that Grimaud would be grateful of your help."

That was how I was thrown out of the house, without ceremony or an explanation. My wife didn't look to my way, but I knew my Euphrasie; being mindful of her husband was too much to ask for a woman who all her life wanted a baby and who wasn't granted her wish, particularly if she had the chance to make a caress to a child.

...

Later that day, while one of my wife's most famous _ragoûts_ were on the fire and light seems to fail us for work, I sat next to her on the steps of the _perron_. The night would be cold but the cicadas were singing on the forest so days of warmth were still ahead. She had that wicker basket by her feet and was diligently sewing some pieces of cloth. The master and his valet were next to the well, pouring cold water over themselves to wash away the dirt of a workday.

I was tired and in foul mood. Do you know that kind of temper when even the most pleasant bed didn't let you sleep? I was in that mean spirit. For years, I had been used to live by the things the woods could give me; war destroyed my way of life and got us a new one by the side of the Count. Our service for him was a nice, easy life. My only complaint was that, in the twenty years we have been married, God never send my wife and me a child.

"Did the Count tell you about the child?" I asked Euphrasie while she placed another thread on the needle.

The bundle of love in question was too busy trying to eat his hand and kicking the lining sheet. To my chagrin I had to admit that the boy was well-behaved, I only heard him cry once in all afternoon.

"He's doing charity," she said with her sweetest voice and I knew she was lying.

I had to bend to the evidence. My wife was seduced by Bragelonne and his habitants, in front of my face, and without I could do something about it. If course, Grimaud never meant to make love to my wife: he was just working; The Count was more than proper with her, the worst thing he did was to have a boy when we get to his castle, but that was enough. I was just a simple man and my wife was my only treasure...

"We are leaving tomorrow" I said to Euphrasie in my most categorical tone.

"You could go if you want," my wife was never intimidated by me. "I'll stay."

"If I go, you'll go. Aren't you my woman?"

Euphrasie placed her labor in her skirt, her big, red hands took my flustered face and she approached her lips to my lips. She was not a beauty, she had mousy brown hair and her eyes were too little, her rounded body and her constant smell of food denounced what she does for a living but there was no other woman for me.

"Even if you go, I'll always be your woman, Charles," she said to me and she smiled, "But you can't really ask me to left this little angel in the hands of those two..."

Her pudgy but strong fingers made me turn my head to the well. Master and servant were stripped down to their breeches and were scrubbing each other’s backs in the too intimate scene of two men accustomed to each other.

"Do you fear they are buggers?"

"I'm sure there is nothing improper going between them," my wife said with a little laugh as if she found the idea preposterous, "but one is a soldier, another is a worker. A child needs a woman, this one have none. The Count trusts me to care for his boy."

I loved her and not being able to make her a mother was the biggest regret of my life. The Count was offering her a way to soothe her pain. Was I really so hard-hearted to rob her that opportunity?

"So, we'll stay..." I stated, giving up fighting for her. "I don't like being a house servant, but if that makes you happy... Tell me what the Count told you."

"I can't...” She said picking up her labor and standing up. "John 15:15."

"John 15:15?"

"You were never a church goer, Charles," her smile was big and sincere as she picked up the wicker basket with the boy. "Go and wash yourself, and bring those two for dinner, would you?"

**Author's Note:**

> Euphrasie is a made up name for Charlot's wife. Dumas and Maquet never gave her a name, besides she is just a minor character in the myriad 20YA's little characters. Still, in chapter 13, Raoul brought little Louisa to her when she was hurt, so we can infer that, at last for the Viscount, Charlot's wife is important.
> 
> For those curious, John 15:15 make reference to the first part of the verse: "I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master's business. Instead, I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you.”


End file.
